THE LITTLE MAN CAME TOWARDS THEM.Baby ventured to peep round. The little black-eyed, white-capped man cametowards them smiling.—P. 121.Click toENLARGE
Denny looked up. She saw a rather little man with a white apron and a white cap, carrying a couple of cackling hens or chickens in his arms, coming across the garden from the house. He was on his way to a little sort of poultry-yard, where he had fastened up half-a-dozen live chickens he had bought at the market that morning, meaning to kill two of them for dinner, but finding them not so fat as he had expected, he was putting them back among their friends for a day or two. Very like arealogre, if Denny and Baby had understood all about it, which they didn't. Denny herself, for a minute or two, felt puzzled as to who this odd-looking man could be. But he was noogre, that was certain, any way.
"Don't be frightened, Baby, it's not a' ogre," she said. "Look up, he's far too little."
Baby ventured to peep round. The little black-eyed, white-capped man came towards them smiling.
"Bon jour, Mademoiselle, bon jour, Monsieur Bébé," he said, looking quite pleased. And then he stroked down the ruffled feathers of the poor chickens, and held them out to the two children, chattering away at a great rate in Baby's "lubbish talk," hardly a word of which they understood.
"Can he be wanting to sell the chickens?" said Denny.
The cook, who had before this lived with families from England, understood the children's language better than they did his, which, however, is not saying a great deal.
"Yes, Mees, pairfectly," he said. "Me sell zem at ze marché the morning. Fine poulets, goot poulets, not yet strong—wait one, two, 'ree days—be strong for one grand dinner for Madame."
"Who are you? What's your name, please?" said Denny, still a little alarmed.
"Jean-Georges, Mademoiselle," said the little man, with a bow. "Jean-Georges compose charming plates for Mademoiselle and Monsieur Bébé. Jean-Georges loves little messieurs and little 'demoiselles. Madame permit Monsieur and Mademoiselle visit Jean-Georges in his cuisine one day."
Denny caught the word "cuisine," which, of course, children, you will know means "kitchen."
"He's the cook, Baby," she said, with great relief; "don't you remember grandfather said he must have a man cook? Good morning, Mr. Cook, we'll ask mother to let us go and see you one day in your kitchen, and you must make us very nice things to eat, please Mr. Cook."
"Pairfectly, Mademoiselle," said Jean-Georges, with as magnificent a bow as he could manage, considering the two chickens in his arms, and then he walked away.
"What averynice man!" said Denny, feeling very proud of herself, and quite forgetting that she, too, had not been without some fears. "You see, Baby dear, how foolish it is to be frightened. Itoldyou there couldn't be any ogres here."
Herr Baby did not answer for a moment. He had certainly very much admired Denny's courage, but still he wasn't quite sure that she had not been averylittle afraid, just for a minute, when he had called out "There he is!"
"What would you have done if therehadbeen a' ogre, Denny?" he said.
"Oh, bother," said Denny, "what's the good of talking about things thatcouldn'tbe? Talk of something sensible, Baby."
Baby grew silent again. They walked on slowly down the garden path.
"Denny," said Baby, in a minute or two, "didn't the little man say somefin about mother having a party?"
Denny pricked up her ears at this. Parties of all kinds pleased her very much.
"Did he?" she said, "I didn't notice. He said something about Madame's dinner, but I didn't think he meant a dinner-party. Perhaps he did though. We'll ask. I'd like mother to have some parties; it seems quite a long time since I had one of my best frocks on to come down to the drawing-room before dinner, the way we did at home. And I know mother and auntie have friends here. I heard that stupid little footman asking Linley what day 'Miladi' would 'receive,' that means have visitors, Baby."
Denny's tongue had run on so fast, that it had left Baby's wits some way behind. They had stopped short at the first idea of a party.
"Mother likes to makewerrypitty dinners when she has parties," he said. "Mother told him that were why she were so solly when him breaked her's pitty glasses."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Baby," said Denny. "Let's have a race. I'll give you a start."
"'Pussy, only you I'll tell,For you can keep secrets well;Promise, pussy, not a word.'Pussy reared her tail and purred."
There was a cat at the Villa Désirée, Baby's, and Denny's, and "all of them's house," as Baby would have called it. Where the cat came from I don't know—whether it belonged to the villa and let itself out with it every winter, like the furniture, or whether it was really the cat of Madame Jean-Georges, and had followed Monsieur Jean-Georges back one evening when he had been home to see his "good friend" (that was what he called his wife), and his two "bébés," is what I cannot tell. I only know the cat was there, and that when Baby could get a chance of playing with it he was very pleased. He didn't often have a chance, in his own room, for "Mademoiselle," as Celia was always called by the new servants, a title which she thought much nicer than "Miss Aylmer," or "Miss Celia,"Mademoiselle, said "the stupid little footman," had given strict orders that "Minet" was not to be allowed upstairs for fear of the "pets," the "calanies," and the Bully, and Peepy-Snoozle, and Tim, all of whom would have been very much to Minet's taste, I fear. It was very funny to see the way the little footman went "shoo-ing" at the poor cat the moment Celia appeared, for Celia had rather grand manners for her age, and the servants thought her very "distinguished," especially the stupid little footman. But Herr Baby was very sorry for poor Minet; he had no particular pet of his own here, nothing to make up for his "labbits," and so he took a great fancy to the pussy.
"Poor little 'weet darling," he would call it; "Celia's a c'uel girl to d'ive Minet away,Minetwouldn't hurt the calanies, or the Bully, or the sleepy-mouses; Minet is far too good."
"Pray, how doyouknow, Baby?" Celia would say. "Cats are cats all the world over, every one knows that."
"Minetaren't," Baby would have it, "Minet has suts a kind heart. Him asked Minet if her would hurt the calanies and the sleepy-mouses, and her said 'no, sairtingly not.'"
"Baby!" said Denny, "what stories! Cats can't talk. You shouldn't tell stories."
"Minet can talk," said Baby. "When him asks for somefin, her says 'proo-proo-oo,' and that means 'yes,' and if her means 'no,' her humps up her back and s'akes her tail. When him asked Minet if her would like to hurt the calanies, her humped up her backneverso high, and sook andsookher tail, for no,no,NO!"
Celia could not find an answer to this. Baby went on stroking Minet with great satisfaction, as if there was nothing more to be said.
"All the same," said Celia at last, "I don't want Minet to come upstairs. She's quite as happy downstairs, and, you see, it wouldfrightenthe birds and the dormice if they saw her, fortheymightn't understand that she wouldn't, on any account, hurt them."
"Werry well," said Baby, and he went on playing with his new pet.
"Herr Baby," said Lisa coming into the room a moment or two later; "mine child, how is it that your coat is so dirty? All green, Herr Baby, as if you had rubbed it on the wet grass."
"It's with his poking in among the bushes by the kitchen window," said Denny of the ready tongue; "yesterday, you know, Baby, when you thought——"
"Hush," said Baby, "don't talk to me. You distairb me and the cat—we'se busy."
Denny and Lisa looked at each other and smiled.
"Pussy, pitty pussy, dear Minet," went on Baby, who wanted to stop Denny's account of his fears.
"We're going out, Herr Baby," said Lisa. "There are commissions for your lady mamma. We are to go to the patissier and——"
"Who are the pattyser?" said Baby.
"The cumfectioner," said Denny.
Baby pricked up his ears.
"We are to go to the patissier," said Lisa, "to order some cakes for Miladi for to-morrow, when Miladi's friends come to dine; and perhaps we will buy some little cake for Herr Baby's tea. Come, mine child, leave Minet, and come."
Herr Baby got up from the corner of the room where he had been embracing the cat; there was a grave look on his face, but he did not say anything till he was out on the road with Lisa. Denny was not with them; she had got leave to go a walk with Celia and the lady who came every day to give her French lessons, which Denny thought much more grand than going out with Baby and Lisa.
"Lisa," said Baby, after a few minutes, "are mother going to have a party?"
"Not one very big party," said Lisa, "just some Miladis and some Herren—some genkelmen—to dine."
"Will it look very pitty?" asked Baby.
"Not so pretty as athome," said Lisa, who, now that she was away from it, of course looked upon The Manor—that was the name of "home"—as the most lovely place in the world; "there's no nice glass, no nice pretty dishes here. And François, he is so dumm—how you say 'dumm,' Herr Baby?"
"Dumm," repeated Baby, exactly copying Lisa's voice, staring up in her face.
"No, mine child, how you say it of English? Ah—I knows—stupid. François, he is too stupid. Peters and I, we will make the table so pretty as might be. Lisa will command some bon-bons."
"Mother will want the shiny jugs," thought poor Baby. "Hims'ouldhave brought him's pennies. Him would like to know if him has 'nuff pennies; perhaps him could go to the little girl's shop when Lisa is at the pattyser's."
But he said nothing aloud. How it was that he kept his thoughts to himself, why he had such a dislike to any one knowing what was in his mind, I cannot exactly tell; but so it was, and so it often is with very little children, even though quite frank and open by nature. Baby had, I think, a fear that mother might not like him to spend all his pennies on the shiny jugs, perhaps she might say she would pay them herself, and that would not have pleased him at all. Deep down in his honest little heart was the feeling thathehad broken the glasses andheshould pay for the new ones. But he said nothing to Lisa—he had never spoken of the jugs to her—mother had been "so kind," never to tell any one about what a silly little boy he had been, for mother knew that he didn't like being laughed at.Perhaps"they" would laugh at him now if he told about wanting to buy the shiny jugs—he wouldn't mind so much if hehadbought them, but "'appose they wouldn't let him go to the shop to get them?" Poor little mother! She wouldn't have her pitty glasses then for the party—no, it was much best to settle it all his own self. Whom he meant by "they" I don't think Baby quite knew, he had a sort of picture in his mind of grandfather and auntie and mother all talking together, and Celia and Fritz and Denny all joining in, and saying that "Baby was far too little to go to shops to buy things." And by the time he had thought this all over, Herr Baby glancing up—for till now he had been walking along with Lisa's hand, seeing and noticing nothing—found that they were already in the street of the town where the biggest shops were, and that Lisa was looking about to find the shop where she was to give the orders for his mother.
It was a very pretty shop indeed—Baby had never seen such a pretty shop. The cakes and bon-bons were laid out so nicely on the tables round the wall, and they were all of such pretty colours. Baby walked round and round admiring, and, I think, considering he was such a very little boy, that it was very good of him not to think of touching any of the tempting dainties. In a few minutes Lisa had ordered all she wanted—then she chose some nice biscuits and a very few little chocolate bon-bons, which she had put up in two paper parcels, and when they came out of the shop she told Herr Baby that they were for him, his mother had told her to get him something nice. Baby looked pleased, but still he seemed very grave, and Lisa began wondering what he was thinking of.
"Are you tired, mine child?" she said.
No, Herr Baby was not at all tired. He wanted to walk down the street to the other end to see all the shops, he wanted to seeallthe streets andallthe shops before they went home. Lisa was rather amused. She had not known Herr Baby was soveryfond of shops, she said, and it would take far too long to see themall. But she went to the end of that street with him, and then back again down the opposite side, and then he begged her to turn down the other street they had crossed on their way to the confectioner's, and they had gone quite to the end ofit, Baby staring in at all the shop windows in a way that really made Lisa smile, for he looked so grave and solemn, when all of a sudden, just as Lisa was thinking of saying they must go home, Baby gave a sort of little scream and almost jumped across the street.
"Him sees it, him sees it," he cried, and when Lisa asked him what he meant, all he would say was,
"That's the little street we went down with auntie the 'nother day," and Lisa, who had forgotten all about the old shop window with the shiny glass and the blue-eyed picture, wondered why he was so eager about it.
"Is that the way we came?" she said, "I am not sure. I not quite remember."
But "him wants to go home that way," persisted Baby, and he tugged Lisa along. They passed at the other side, but Baby did not mind that. He could see across quite plainly, for the street was narrow, and there were still the glasses in the corner and the sweet baby-girl face up on the wall, looking down on them.
And after that he was quite satisfied to go quietly home; he did not speak much on the way, but Lisa was accustomed to his grave fits, and did not pay much attention to them. He only asked her one question—just as they were getting close to the Villa.
"Is it to-morrow mother's going to have all the pitty things for dinner?" he said.
"Yes, Herr Baby, and Lisa will be busy, to show François how Miladi likes everything. Herr Baby and Fräulein Denny will be goot and play peacefully in the garden to-morrow, so she can be busy," said Lisa, who was very proud of being of so much consequence.
"Yes," said Herr Baby, "him won't want you to take care of him."
After tea he got out his money-box. This he often did. He was such a careful little boy that mother let him keep his money himself, and it was a great pleasure to him to count over the different kinds of "pennies;" he called them all "pennies," brown, white, and even yellow pennies, for Baby had a pound and a ten shilling piece that had been given him on his last birthday, and that he had never been able to make up his mind how to spend. He looked at them now with great satisfaction.
"See, Denny," he said, "him has two yellow pennies, a big and a little, and free white pennies, a big and a little and a littler, and five brown pennies. Him knows there's five, for him can count up to five, 'cos five's just as old as him is going to be. See, Denny, isn't there a lot? And the yellow pennies could be turned into lots and lots of white pennies Lisa says, and the white pennies could be turned into lots of brown pennies, isn't it funny? Isn't him werry rich, Denny?"
"Yes, I suppose so," said Denny, "I really don't know. I wish you wouldn't chatter so, Baby. I can't learn my lessons."
Poor Baby! It was not often he was to blame for "chattering so." But he looked with great respect at Denny for having lessons to do, and was not at all offended. Denny was proud of being with Celia and the new governess, but I think her pleasure was a little spoilt by finding that the new governess had no idea of taking care of a little girl who didn't do any lessons, and this evening she was rather cross at a row of French words which she had to learn to say the next morning. Baby went quietly off into the corner with his money-box, but finding it rather dull to have no one to show his pennies to, he went out of the room, which you remember was downstairs, and, opening a door which led to the kitchen, peeped about in hopes of seeing his friend Minet. He had not long to wait—Minet had a corner of her own by the kitchen wall, on the other side of which was the stove, and where she found herself almost as warm as in the kitchen, when Monsieur Jean-Georges objected to her company. She was curled up in this corner when she heard Baby's soft voice calling her—"Minet, Minet, pussy, pussy," and up she got, slowly and lazily, as cats do when they are half asleep, but still willingly enough, for she dearly loved Herr Baby.
"Minet," said Baby, when she appeared, and coming up to him rubbed her furry coat against his little bare legs, "Minet, dear, come and sit wif him on the 'teps going down to the garden, and him'll tell you about his money."
But Lisa, coming by just then, said it was too cold now to sit on stone steps; for warm as it was in the day at Santino the evenings got quickly chilly.
"Us can't go back to the 'coolroom," said Baby; "Denny won't let dear Minet come there, and him must stay wif Minet, 'cos her waked up when him called her."
"Miss Denny must let you stay in the school-room," said Lisa. "There is no little birds there for Minet to touch."
She opened the door, and Denny was too busy with her lessons to scold.
"You will be very quiet, Herr Baby," said Lisa. So Baby and Minet went off into a corner with the money-box.
"Minet, dear," said Baby, in a low voice, "see what lots of pennies him has. Yellow pennies, and white pennies, and brown pennies."
Minet purred, naturally, for Baby was stroking her softly with one hand all the time he was holding up his pennies with the other.
"Dear Minet," said Baby, much gratified, "you is pleased that him has so many pennies. Now, Minet, him will tell you a secret, agate, gatesecret, about what him's going to do wif all him's pennies."
Here Minet purred again. Baby looked round. There was no one listening. Lisa was going backwards and forwards, putting away the tea-things; Denny was still groaning and grumbling over her row of words; Baby might safely tell Minet his secret. Still he lowered his voicesolow that certainly no one but Minet could hear. And when he left off speaking, Minet purred more than ever. Only Baby thought it just as well to say to her, before Lisa took him away up to bed, "Minet, dear, you'll besurenot to tell nobody;" and I suppose Minet promised, for Baby seemed quite pleased.
He woke in the morning with his head quite full of his great idea. They were not to go a regular walk that day, Lisa told him, for in the afternoon she would be busy, and Herr Baby would be good and play quietly in the garden, would he not?
"All alone?" asked Baby.
"Perhaps Miss Denny will stay, too, if Herr Baby wishes," said Lisa; "she was going again with Miss Celia, but——"
"Oh no," said Baby, "him would rather be alone, kite alone, 'cept Minet. Fritz is very good to him, but Fritz will be at school. Fritz is never at home now 'cept Thursdays."
"No," said Lisa; "but Herr Fritz is very happy at school, and when Herr Baby is big he will go too."
"Yes," said Baby; but he didn't seem to think much what he was saying. Lisa thought he was dull about Fritz being at school—I forgot to tell you that Fritz went every day now to a very nice school in the town, where there were a few boys about his own age—but Lisa was mistaken.
That afternoon, any one passing the low hedge which at one side was all that divided the Villa garden from the road, would have seen a pretty little picture. There was Baby, seated on the grass, one arm fondly clasping Minet's neck, while with the other he firmly held the famous money-box. He was dressed in his garden blouse only, but for some reason he had his best hat on. And he kept looking about him, first towards the house and then towards the garden gate, in a funny considering sort of way.
At last he seemed to have made up his mind.
"Minet," he said to the cat, "him thinks we'll go now. 'Amember, Minet, you'vep'omisedto go wif him. If you get werry tired, Minet, him'll try to carry you. If you could carry the money-box, and him could carry you, then it would bekiteeasy. What a pity you haven't got two more paws, that would do for hands, Minet!"
Minet purred.
"Yes, poor Minet. Nebber mind, dear; but we must be going." And closely followed by the cat, who had no idea, poor thing, of what was before her, Baby made his way down the path to the garden gate. It was open, at least not latched. Baby easily pushed it wide enough for his little self to go through, and stood, with Minet and the money-box, triumphant on the highroad.
"It were the best way, thit way," he said to himself. For there was another gate to the Villa, leading out to the upper road. But this gate was guarded by a lodge, and the "concierge," as they called the lodge-keeper, came out to open it for every one who went in and out. And "p'raps," thought Baby, "the concierge mightn't have let him through, 'cos, of course, her didn't know why him was going out alone with Minet."
So Minet and he and the money-box found themselves out on the road on their own account.
All the family was scattered that afternoon. Celia and Denny had gone a long walk with their governess, Fritz was at school, mother and auntie had driven to see some friends a good way off, meaning to call for Fritz at his school on their way home. The servants, too, were all more busy than usual on account of the ladies and gentlemen coming to dinner. Lisa and Linley and Peters were all trying to make the strange servants understand just how they were used to have the table at home, and giving themselves a great deal more trouble than grandfather or mother would have wished had they known about it. Lisa was very clever at arranging flowers prettily, and she was so sure of Baby's quiet ways when he was left to himself, that she never gave a thought to him once she saw him safely settled in the garden with Minet. It was such a safe garden. There really was no part of it where a child could get into any trouble, for though there was a little water in the basin from which rose the fountain, it was so little, that not even Minet could have wetted much more than her paws in it. So Lisa went on quite comfortably doing the flowers and arranging the dessert in the pantry, by way of giving François a lesson, and now and then she would glance out of the window which looked on to the garden, and, seeing Baby there with Minet, she felt quite easy. She did once say to herself,
"I wonder why Herr Baby begged so to have his best hat to-day—but he is one good child, one should please him sometimes."
I am afraid the truth was that Lisa spoilt her dear Baby a little!
After a while she looked out again. She did not see Herr Baby this time, but she did not think anything of it.
"They will have gone to play among the bushes," she said to herself, meaning by "they" Baby and Minet of course, and she went on with what she was doing, and got so interested in helping Peters to explain to François that in England people always changed the wine glasses at the end of dinner, and put clean ones for dessert, that the time went on without it ever entering her head to say to herself, "What can have become of Herr Baby?"
Mother and auntie were later than they had expected of returning from their drive. They had gone a long way, and coming back it was mostly up-hill.
"Fritz will be thinking we have forgotten him," said mother, looking at her watch, "but I told him to be sure to wait till we came. He is too little to go home alone yet, at least till he knows his way quite well or can speak enough to ask."
"We might have told Celia and Denny to call for him, as they are out with Mademoiselle," said auntie.
Just then in turning a corner, for they were quite in the town now, auntie's eyes caught sight of the narrow street where the old curiosity shop was.
"By the by," she said, "I should so like to ask about that picture. I told you about it, you remember, May?"—May, you know, was the children's mother's name—"have we time to go that way?"
"I'm afraid not; we are late already," said mother. "I'm so sorry."
"Oh, never mind, another day will do quite well," said auntie, cheerfully.
So they drove home, quickly, just stopping a moment to pick up Fritz, who was waiting for them at the gate of his school.
If theyhadhappened to go round by the old curiosity shop, how surprised they would have been; but what a great deal of trouble it would have saved them, as you shall hear.
Lisa met them as they got home, with a long story about the table and the flowers and the stupidness of François, which mother and auntie could hardly help laughing at.
"Never mind, Lisa," said mother; "it will do very well, I am sure. Where are the children?"
"Upstairs, Miladi, taking off their things. They have just come in," said Lisa, never thinking, somehow, as mother said the "children," but that she was talking of Celia and Denny. For, somehow, in this family—in every family there are little habits of the kind—Baby was not often spoken of among "the children." They had all got so used to the name of Herr Baby, which Lisa had called him by since he was quite a wee baby, that he was seldom spoken of by any other, and often Baby himself would talk gravely about "the children," without any one seeming to think it odd.
"Upstairs, are they?" said mother. "Well, run off, Fritz, dear, and try and get some of your lessons done before tea. Mademoiselle will help you a little, I daresay, before she goes."
Off ran Fritz. He was a very good boy about his lessons, and anxious to get on well. More to please Lisa and the others than that they cared, mother and auntie went into the dining-room. They were standing looking at the pretty flowers and leaves, when suddenly Fritz put his head in at the door again.
"Lisa," he said, "where's Baby? He's not upstairs, and he's not in the garden. Linley said you told him to play there this afternoon, but he'snotthere."
Lisa started, and her face grew white.
"Mine child!" she cried. "Ah, but he must be in the garden, Master Fritz! I saw him there so happy, with the cat, just—ah, how long ago was it? Have I forgotten him for so long? He must be hiding—to play, to—how do you say?" for Lisa's English was very apt to fly away when she got frightened or upset. "Ach, where can he be?" and off darted poor Lisa.
Mother and auntie and Fritz looked at each other.
"Can he belost?" said Fritz, with a very frightened face.
"Oh no, no," said auntie. "Lisa is so easily startled. But still——"
"Let us all go and look for him at once," said mother. "What a good thing poor grandfather isn't back yet!"
——"he was not there:We searched the house, the grounds—in vain;We searched the green in our despair,And then we searched the house again."
Itwasa good thing grandfather was out, for—and this was what mother was thinking of—poor grandfather, though he looked such a fine, tall, gray-haired old gentleman, was not really very strong or well. It was a great deal for him that they had all come abroad this winter, and the doctors had told mother and auntie that anything to startle or distress him might make him very ill indeed. Poor grandfather! I can't tell you what a kind, good man he was. He had stayed a great many years in India, though he would have liked dreadfully to come home, because it was "his duty" he said, and this had made him seem older than he really was, for a hot country is very wearing out to people who are not born to it. And, though he was so fond of his grandchildren, I think if hehada pet among them, it was little Herr Baby. The mere idea of his tiny Raymond—Baby was named Raymond after grandfather—being lost, even for an hour or two, would have troubled him dreadfully, and thinking of this, auntie, too, repeated after mother,
"Yes, indeed, what a good thing grandfather isn't in. Wemustn'tlet him know, May, till Baby's found."
They didn't stay to say anything more. Off they all set into the garden, for, though Fritz said he had looked all over, they couldn't feel sure that they might not find Baby in some corner, hiding, perhaps, for fun, even. But when they had all been round and round the garden in every direction—mother, and auntie, and Celia, and Denny, and Fritz, and Mademoiselle Lucie, and Lisa, and Linley, and Peters, and François, and, even at the end I believe, Monsieur Jean-Georges himself, and the rest of the French servants—when they had all looked, and peeped, and shouted, and whistled, and begged, and prayed Baby to come out if he was hiding, and there was no answer, then they gave it up. It was impossible that the little man could be in the garden.
Where could he be?
Fortunately there was nowhere in the garden where he could have hurt himself—no pit or pond into which he could have fallen. And it was surely impossible that any one could have come into the garden and stolen him away, as Celia, with a pale face, whispered to auntie. Where could he be, and what should they do?
Time was passing—the friends who were coming to dinner would be at the villa before long; grandfather wassureto appear in a few minutes. What could they do?
"We must not tell grandfather, that is certain," said auntie. "May, dear, it is very hard on you, I know, but I'll tell you how it must be. You must stay here quietly and be ready for the friends who are coming, and I will go off at once and do all, everything I can think of. Mademoiselle Lucie, you know the town, and you can tell me all about the police, and where to go toin casewe don't find our darling at once, though I quite think we shall. I can't take you, Peters," for Peters was eagerly coming forward, "Sir Raymond would miss you, nor you, Lisa, for you must take care of the other children," at which Lisa all but broke out crying; "It was too good of Mademoiselle Hélène to trust her; she didn't deserve it." "And François would be no good. You and I, Mademoiselle Lucie, will go at once. And you must tell grandfather that I was obliged to go out, for an hour or two, unexpectedly."
"I am afraid he will think it very strange," said mother, "but I will do my best."
Mother spoke quietly, but her face was very white.
"Do go, Nelly," she said, "as quick as you can."
And Celia and Denny, who had been thinking of bursting into tears, took example by her and auntie, and tried to look cheerful.
"Auntie," said Celia, running after her to the gate, "I'll be very good and try to comfort mother. And we'll not let grandfather think there's anything wrong. But oh, auntie dear, Ihopeyou'll soon bring dear Baby safe home."
"So do I, darling," said auntie, stooping to kiss her, even though she was so hurried, and, for the first time, there was a little quiver in her voice, and Celia ran back to the others, thinking even more than before how good and brave auntie was.
They hastened down the road, auntie and little Mademoiselle Lucie, I mean. But when they had gone some little way, auntie stopped short.
"He may have gone by the other road, and we may miss him that way;" for, without thinking, auntie had hurried out by the little gate opening on to the lower road.
"I think not," said Mademoiselle Lucie, "at least the concierge would have been sure to see him, and we did ask her, and she had not seen him at all."
"To be sure," said auntie, "I forgot about the concierge."
"Besides," Mademoiselle Lucie continued, "to get to the town he must pass the way we are going, a little farther on where the two roads run together."
"To be sure," said auntie, again.
"It is to the town we are going?" asked Mademoiselle Lucie.
"Yes," said auntie, "I have an idea, but I did not like to say it to my sister for fear it should lead to nothing. There is a shop in the town where there is a picture that Baby took a great fancy to the other day. At least it was I that noticed it first, and he was so pleased with it. There was something else in the shop that he was looking at—I don't remember what—when we noticed the picture."
"Do you know where the shop is? Can we easily find it?"
"I think so; yes, I am sure I can find it," said auntie. "It is a shop of curiosities, a shop at a corner, the street is narrow."
"I know it," said Mademoiselle Lucie, "though it is not very well known. There are grander shops of curiosities which are more visited, but I know that shop, as I often pass it."
She told auntie the name of the owner of the shop, and of the street, and then auntie fixed, as they were now near the town, that she would go on alone to the shop, while Mademoiselle Lucie went to her brother, who, she hoped, would be at home at this hour, and get him to go with her to the police office, so that no time should be lost.
Auntie hurried on by herself, but though she went so fast that the easy-going peasants driving their sleepy bullocks, whom she met, looked after her in surprise, she did not, for one moment, leave off looking about her on every side, to see if by any chance she could discover the well-known little figure it would have given her such joy to see. But no. Once or twice a child in the distance made her heart beat a little quicker, but, as soon as she got near enough to see it clearly, her hopes sank again. There were very few houses on the country road leading from the villa till one was quite in the town. So auntie thought it not worth while to ask, for, in a street of houses and shops standing close together, and people constantly passing, it was much less likely that any one would have noticed a little tot like Herr Baby making his way.
"No," said auntie to herself, "it is no use stopping to ask. The best thing I can do is to find the shop at once, and if they can tell me nothing there, to follow Mademoiselle Lucie to the police office."
And, with a deep sigh, for, somehow, every step she took farther without seeing anything of the little truant, made auntie's heart feel heavier—she hurried on again.
She soon found the wide street—the street with the dressmakers' and milliners' shops, which Fritz had not cared to look at—then she turned one corner and went on a little farther, then another, and—yes, there was the little old shop, looking just the same as the day they had all stood there so happily. Auntie had been walking very quickly, almost running, but when she saw the shop just before her she stood still—she feltsoanxious—what should she do if she could hear nothing of Baby?
When she got to the door she stopped and looked in; there seemed to be no one in the shop. Auntie glanced up to the side of the door where the little portrait had hung. It was gone! Could that have anything to do with Baby? auntie asked herself in a sort of puzzled way. Could Baby have thought of buying it? how much money had he? But it was stupid and foolish to stand there puzzling and wondering, instead of boldly going in to ask. Auntie took her courage in her two hands, as the saying is, and went in.
No one there; where could the owner of the shop be? The last time he had come forward at once when they were only looking in—a little-dried up old man, just the sort of person one would expect to find in such a shop, sitting in a dark corner like an old spider, watching to see what flies were passing his way. Auntie went right in without seeing any one, but she heard voices not far off, and, in her anxiety, she went forward to a door slightly open, leading into rooms behind the shop. She knocked—but for a moment no one took any notice. They were talking so eagerly inside that she had to knock again, and in the moment or two that had passed without them hearing her, she heard one or two words that made her eager to hear more.
"No, no," some one was saying, "much better go at once to the office. We may get into trouble."
"He seems so sensible," said another voice. "Isay, better go with him and carry the things, and we shall soon see if he knows his way, and——"
Auntiecouldnot wait any more. She pushed open the door and went in. There was, however, no Herr Baby to be seen, as she had almost expected there would be. There was the old man that she remembered having seen before, looking like a very startled spider this time, as he raised his two shrivelled old arms in surprise at her appearance, and beside him was a very pleasant, bright-faced, young woman, with a baby in her arms, talking, or at least looking as if she had just been talking very eagerly.
"Is he here?" said auntie, quite breathless, "my little boy, my little nephew, I mean. Is Baby here?"
The young woman looked at the old man with a sort of little nod of triumph.
"You see," she said quickly, "I said there was no need to frighten the poor darling by taking him to the police office." "Yes, Madame," she went on, turning to auntie, "the dear bébé is here—that is to say, he cannot but be the one you are looking for. I sent him out into the little garden with his cat and my little girl, while my grandfather and I talked about what to do. I would have sent him home, I mean we would have tried to find his home, if my husband had been here, but he is away."
"And I am too feeble, Madame, as you see, to walk far," said the old man, who seemed now anxious to be very amiable.
"But you talked of taking him to the police office," said the young woman, in a low voice, "the idea! to frighten a bébé like that."
"Hush, hush," said the old man, "all was to be done for the best. You shall see him, your dear child, Madame," he went on, bustling about.
"But tell me first—a moment——" said auntie, "What did he come for? Did he buy the picture?"
"The picture," repeated the old man, "no, surely. It was the glass jugs, the little gentleman wanted, and he had his money all right—I took but the just price, Madame—I would not deceive any one."
"They are very dear tomymind," said the young woman, "but there—I know nothing about old things. This is not our shop, Madame—I look in in passing, to see the grandfather sometimes, that is all."
AUNTIE STOOD STILL TO LISTEN.Auntie stood still a moment to listen.—P. 155.Click toENLARGE
"And Baby came to buy somejugs, you say," repeated auntie. There was a confused remembrance in her mind of something Baby had said about jugs, something he had asked her to look at the day they had stood at the shop window, but which she had since forgotten. Her only idea in coming to the little old shop had been the picture. "You said he came to buy some jugs?" she said again.
"Yes, Madame," said the old man "two glass jugs—Venetian glass."
"Ah!" said auntie, and then she remembered it all—about the glass jugs that Baby had broken at home, and what he had said to her about those in the shop window being like them. "And the picture?" she said, "is it no longer there? But first, let me have my little boy. He is in the garden, you say?"
She looked round, for there was no sign of a garden. The window of the little room in which they were, looked out only on to a blank wall.
"This way, Madame," said the young woman, opening a door at the side. It led into a little dark passage, and, at the end of it, there was another door, standing open, and through this door came the sound of children's voices.
Auntie stood still a moment to listen—the first words made her smile.
"Him wants to go home now," said the well-known voice. "Little girl, whywon'tyou listen? Him wants to go home, and so does Minet. Doesn't you hear?"
The little girl must have been very much puzzled, for auntie heard her trying her best, in her baby talk, to make this queer little stranger understand that they were to stay out in the garden till her mother called them in.
"Him wants to gohome, and so does Minet," repeated poor Baby, and his voice began to quiver and shake, as if he were going to cry. Auntie could stand it no longer. She hurried out into the little garden.
"You shall go home now, Baby dear," she said. "Auntie has come to fetch you."
Baby looked up eagerly at the sound of a well-known voice. He ran to her and held up his little face for a kiss. He looked very pleased, but not at all surprised. It was one of Herr Baby's funny ways, that he almost never seemed surprised.
"Him is so glad you's come," he said. "You'll help him to carry home the shiny jugs, for Minet'sravertired, and him might have to carry her and the money-box. But you won't tell mother about the jugs, will you? You'll let him run in wif them him's self, won't you, auntie?Won'tmother be pleased?"
"But you must tell me all about it, dear," said auntie; "did you come off all alone to get the glasses? Why didn't you ask some one to come with you?"
Baby looked a little troubled.
"Him didn't comealone," he said. "Him told Minet, and Minet comed too, only her's werry tired. And it were for the party, auntie," he added, looking up wistfully, "Lisa said mother had no pitty jugs for her's party. And oh, auntie, p'ease do be kick, 'fear we shall be too late."
Auntie took his hand and led him back into the shop, where the old man was wrapping up the jugs with a great show of soft paper, that auntie should see how careful he was.
"Has my little boy paid you?" she asked.
"Oh yes," said Herr Baby, understanding, though she did not speak English. "See in him's money-box;" he held out the money-box with some difficulty for, having Minet under the other arm, it was not easy for him to get his hands free; "him had two yellow pennies, one big and one little, him gived the big one for the shiny jugs."
"Was that the price of the jugs?" auntie asked the man.
"No, Madame, I have the change to give the little gentleman. See here," and he held out two large silver coins, the size of crowns, which auntie took.
"I don't think the jugs are dear," she said, with a smile, turning to the young woman, who looked pleased. "And some day," she went on, "we will come to see you, and bring you some little thing for your little girl, as you have been so kind to my little boy. Come now, Baby dear, we must get home as quick as we can."
"But the little girl, the pitty little girl," said Herr Baby, "him must say good-bye toher."
"There she is beside you," said auntie, thinking, of course, that he meant the young woman's little girl, "say good-bye to her."
"No, no," said Baby, "him doesn't mean her. Him means the pitcher little girl,her," he went on, pointing to the young woman, "her gottened her down for him to see, 'cos him were trying to reach up to kiss her."
That was why the picture was no longer in the window then? Where was it? Auntie turned round as she felt Baby pulling her.
"Her's there," he said, pointing to a chair on which the picture had been set down hurriedly with the face the other way. Auntie turned it round. Dear little face! It smiled at her again with the pretty half wistful, half wise expression, which had so taken her fancy. Now it seemed to her to be saying—
"I am so glad you have found him. I knew where he was. I am so glad to have helped you to find him;" and when Baby lifted his little face to kiss, with his rosy living lips, the picture of the child, who had once been living and loving like him, I can hardly tell you the strange feeling that went through auntie's heart.
"She must have been a dear good little girl, whoever she was," she thought to herself. "It would be nice to leave a sweet feeling behind one in the world long after one is dead, such as that little face gives. I should like to have that picture. I must see about it."
But to-day there was no time to be wasted.
Auntie took Baby by the hand, persuading him to let her carry the precious jugs, as Minet and the money-box were already more than enough for him. And, even with her help, it was not so easy to manage at all, and auntie was very glad to meet Mademoiselle Lucie a little way down the street, and get her to carry part.
Mademoiselle Lucie was delighted, as you can fancy, to see Herr Baby again. She had been coming back in great trouble to look for auntie; for very unluckily, as she thought, she had found that her brother was out, and she had not therefore gone to the police office.
"A very good thing, after all," said auntie; "it would only have been giving trouble for nothing, as we have found him."
But she said to Mademoiselle Lucie, in a low voice, to say nothing about the police before Herr Baby, as it might frighten him.
"Would it not, perhaps, be a good thing to frighten him a little?" said Mademoiselle Lucie; "he would not run off again."
Auntie shook her head.
"Not in that way," she said. "We will make him understand how he has frightenedus. That will be the best way."
"How did he mean to get home alone, I wonder," said Mademoiselle Lucie; "how could he have carried all he had, and Minet too?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," said auntie. "How did you mean to carry everything home, Baby dear?"
Baby looked puzzled.
"Him doesn't know," he said. "P'r'aps him thought Minet would carry some," he added, with a smile.
Auntie smiled too. Mademoiselle Lucie looked up for auntie to explain to her, for she did not understand Baby's talk any better than he did hers.
Suddenly another idea struck auntie.
"How did you manage to tell the old man in the shop what you wanted to buy?" she said.
Baby considered.
"Him sawed the pitty little girl," he said; "her was looking at the shiny glasses—always—her was keeping them for him. Him asked her to. Then him touched them; him climbed up on a chair in the shop and touched them, and then him showed all him's pennies to the old man; but the lady wif the baby knowed the best what him wanted. Her were very nice, but the pitty little girl were the goodest, weren't her?"
Auntie listened quietly, for Baby spoke quite gravely.
"It would be nice to have that pretty picture, wouldn't it, Baby?"
"Yes," said Baby; but he didn't lookquitepleased. "Auntie," he said, "him doesn't like you to call her apitcher. Him thinks her's azeallittle girl, a zeal fairy little girl. Her tookened care of the shiny glasses so nice for him, didn't her?"
And auntie smiled again.